


Tonight

by rooonil_waazlib



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Oral Sex, annoying singing, enrique iglesias songs no less
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 00:33:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3189143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rooonil_waazlib/pseuds/rooonil_waazlib
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a sophomore, Steve had expected that he’d be less angsty about Valentine’s Day.  Last year he’d been single, and he’d really not enjoyed himself, not with all the stupid crap Halverton University had pulled out, including candygrams and heart-shaped waffles in the cafeteria.  Well, he’s single again—still—this year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

As a sophomore, Steve had expected that he’d be less angsty about Valentine’s Day.  Last year he’d been single, and he’d really not enjoyed himself, not with all the stupid crap Halverton University had pulled out, including candygrams and heart-shaped waffles in the cafeteria.  Well, he’s single again—still—this year, and maybe he wouldn’t be so angsty except his roommate, Sam, now has a girlfriend, and he’s been preparing for _days_ and…and Steve’s just…over it.

Plus, he’s got a midterm in a week, and he’s about as stressed as he could possibly be.  He’d signed up as a visual arts major in part because it would have— _should_ have—meant he wouldn’t have to take classes with tests, but, well, Halverton had had different ideas, which is how he’s ended up stuck in a bullshit biology class that has a midterm _and_ a final.  And lab reports due every week.

He ends up being up later than he usually is, and when he finally climbs into bed it’s almost three o’clock in the morning.  Technically, it’s Valentine’s Day.  He refuses to think about that or the fact that he’s still single as he slips off into sleep.

When he snaps awake, he’s already _so fucking angry_ —and how the hell did that even happen?  He sits up, peers around in the dark for a second, and then figures it out: there’s someone outside the window.  Singing.  Steve’s pretty sure that’s an Enrique Iglesias song.  Maybe?

He stutters out of bed, shoulders open the window and presses his face into the narrow space that’s now open to him.  “Would you _shut up?_ ” he shouts.  The guy doesn’t stop singing.  “Seriously, you fuckwad!  Don’t make me come down there!”

All he gets in reply is, “ _and you can taaaaake…my breath away…_ ”

Grabbing for the nearest thing to him, he sticks his arm out the window and hucks it at the guy, who yelps, and laughs, but doesn’t stop singing.  Steve growls and grabs several more things, throws them with both hands, cursing as loudly as he can out the window.  If anything, the guy only sings louder.  Three years ago, Steve probably could have slithered out the window, but now—well, Steve’s cursing the beautiful things puberty did to his body, just now.

Steve’s about ready to break the window so it opens further so he can _jump the fuck out and strangle this guy_ when the song ends.  “Hey Sam!  Sam Wilson!” the guy yells, and Steve hits his head as he turns to look at his roommate, who’s only just now sitting up.

“This is for _you?_ ” Steve whispers.  He can feel his eye twitching as he watches Sam stumble out of bed, drop to his knees and look out the window too.

“Sam, Nat wants me to tell you she loves you!” the guy shouts.  “Oh, and something about fuzzy kittens!”

“Oh god,” Sam groans, resting his forehead against the windowsill.

“I hate you,” Steve mutters, “ _Fuzzy Kitten_.”

As he gets back into bed, he can still hear the singer cackling outside.  It’s nearly four in the morning.  “I’m taking your biology textbook,” the singer calls, and then Steve can hear pages flipping.  “…Steve Rogers!  Steve, oh, Stevie, this textbook’s mine now!”

Horror rushes over him like a wave hitting sand, freezing cold and waking him up faster than the singing had.  Oh, he is _fucked_.  He’s fucked, and it’s all completely Sam’s fault.  There’s going to be hell to pay in the morning.

*

At half-past six, he smacks Sam awake, because he can’t fucking handle it anymore.  He’s already gone for his first run of the day, and he’s showered, but he’s so stressed and exhausted and wow, does he ever need Sam’s phone.

“That guy,” he says as soon as he’s sure Sam’s awake, “who was singing last night.  Friend of Nat’s, yeah?  I need her number so I can find out who he is, because he _has my bio textbook_.”

“How’d he get that?” Sam asks, stretching up in his bed to flick his coffeemaker on.

Steve kicks the edge of Sam’s mattress so the whole thing shudders in its frame.  “I threw it out the window at him last night when he wouldn’t shut his goddamn mouth.”

“That wasn’t very smart.”

“Yeah, well, who the fuck’s fault is that,” Steve snaps.  “Fucking _Natasha_.  She’s the one who sent him over here, _Fuzzy Kitten_.”

Suddenly, Sam jerks up to glare at him.  “Where _the hell_ did you hear that one?”

Steve points at the window.  “The guy.  Or don’t you remember?”

“Dude, I barely remember him coming over here,” Sam says, but he grabs his phone off the charger near his head and starts flicking through it.  “Look, fine, here, I’m a nice guy.  Here’s her number.  Don’t call me Fuzzy Kitten ever again.”

*

Steve’s almost fifteen minutes early to meet the guy, who says his name is Bucky.  He ducks into the coffee shop in the library while he’s waiting, and by the time he steps back onto the carpeted floor of the library, there’s a guy leaning against the structural pole by the computer bay.  Swearing, Steve hesitates; the guy’s not looking at him, and Steve would be lying if he said he wasn’t attracted to him.

He’s wearing skinny jeans, which Steve thinks look ridiculous on ninety-nine percent of people, but on Bucky—they work.  Hands stuffed in his pockets, one boot crossed over the other, he’s wearing a plaid shirt over a zip-up hoodie over a tank top with what Steve’s pretty sure is a Pokémon on it that reads, _BURN DOWN FOR WHAT_.  The worst part, though, is his perfectly-mussed man bun.  And the lollipop he’s fellating.

After a few seconds he notices Steve; his dark eyes flick over Steve’s plain black hoodie and he bobs his head, giving Steve a slow smirk around the narrow white stick of his lollipop.  He doesn’t move from his post, so Steve heads his way.

“You must be the famous Steve Rogers,” he says as Steve walks closer.

For a second Steve considers grabbing Bucky by the hoodie and shaking him until his textbook appears, but—god—the guy is just too cute for that.  “That’s what they call me,” he agrees.  “You Bucky?”

“It’s the name my mama gave me,” Bucky shrugs.

“Your mama must not’ve liked you much,” Steve says absently, because something’s scratching at his consciousness: Bucky’s not carrying a backpack, and he’s not holding a textbook.  He doesn’t have it.

Bucky pops the lollipop out of his mouth. His lips are redder than the candy.  “I think she liked me okay,” he says.  “Gave me my pretty face, at least.”

Clearing his throat, Steve shoves his hands into his pockets.  Now that he knows the textbook’s not here, he’s feeling pretty surly at this asshole.  “Look, where’s my textbook?”

“Back at my place.”  And is Steve imagining things, or is Bucky’s smirk sort of…predatory?  “I was planning on bringing it today to give it back to you, honest, but then—well—you brained me pretty hard with it.”  He rubs the side of his head, and Steve can’t tell if he’s hamming it up or actually trying to soothe pain.  “I forgot it in my dorm.”

Steve feels bad for all of about three seconds.  Then a yawn pushes at the back of his mouth and he remembers how little sleep he’s had.  “You know what, fuck.  You woke me up in the middle of the night, and I haven’t slept since, and that song is _still_ fucking stuck in my head.  I don’t have to feel guilty, alright, not even a little bit.”

“All that serves you right,” Bucky shoots back, and Steve would think that he was mad except he’s still smirking.  “You’re lucky I don’t have a concussion.  So.  My textbook now.”

He goes to walk off; Steve, panicking, runs after him, grabs his arm.  “No!  No, come on, please.  I’m going to fail this class without that book.”

Steve wonders if Bucky’s ever _not_ smirking.  Twisting his arm out of Steve’s grip, Bucky stuffs his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.  “Yeah, look, I’m not letting it out of my sight, now that it’s mine.  So, you know.  I can loan it to you, but you’ll have to come over to my place to look at it.”

“No, please, come on, _please_.”

One of Bucky’s eyebrows tips up.  “My place is probably nicer than yours, anyway.  I’m in a single.  But, I mean, whatever—if you want to pay to get the thing back, that’s on you.  Give me forty bucks and I’ll give it back.”  For a second, Steve thinks about it.  He doesn’t _really_ have forty dollars to spare, but on the other hand, he really needs to study.  “Look, it’s no skin off my nose if you want to study at my place.  Seriously.  Probably quieter than your place, with Nat and Sam there doing…stuff.”

Steve can’t help but hesitate.  Bucky’s making a fair point; Natasha and Sam don’t take their clothes off while he’s there (he thinks it’s Sam who refuses, not Nat), but they do pretty much everything they possibly can with their clothes on, and it’s super distracting.

Bucky raises the other eyebrow to match the first and shoves the lollipop back between his lips with an obscenely slick sound.  “Come on, Stevie, old boy, live a little,” he murmurs, and he’s smirking again.  “Sam and Nat can have some privacy, and you?  You can study in blissful silence.”

Oh, he’s going to regret this.  He squishes his eyes tight closed.  “Okay.  Okay, alright, fine.”

When he peeks, Bucky’s giving him a grin that, seriously, might blind him, it’s so perfect.  “Great.  I get out of class at six.  Meet me by the fountain.”

Bucky leaves, and Steve stands there for several minutes trying to control himself.  Finally he manages a long low sigh, and heads off to class.

*

Bucky’s place _is_ nicer than Steve’s.  First of all, like Bucky had said, it’s a single dorm, and while that makes it a good bit smaller than Steve and Sam’s place, it’s kind of cozy.  Bucky’s got the bed jacked up to about waist-height.  It’s unmade and has several pillows on it and a big comfy duvet.  The place is clean, cleaner than Steve would have expected, but with a warm kind of clutter.  Bucky’s guitar is propped up in the corner, and Steve has a sudden, irrational desire to kick it.  He doesn’t.

“So,” Bucky says, dumping his bag on the floor in one corner and toeing off his boots.  “Biology, huh?”

“Killing me softly,” Steve replies, leaning down to untie his shoes too.  “I’m a fine arts student, I’m not cut out for this shit.”

“You’ll have to let me know if you need a hand,” Bucky says.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re kind of bossy?”

Bucky turns so he’s looking at Steve and grins that big wide perfect grin again.  “Don’t pretend like you don’t like me that way,” he says.  Steve tries not to choke on his own spit, because _since when_ do people say things like this, and tucks his chin into his hoodie.  Bucky laughs.  “Come on, Mister Grumpyboots, it was a _joke_.”  Steve just gives him a weak glare.  After a second, Bucky sobers up.  “Look, for real, though, I’m in kinesiology.  If you need a hand…”

Steve sighs.  “Yeah.  Thanks.  I’ll ask.  Can I—you mind if I—you know, get started?”

Turning, Bucky picks up the textbook, perched at the corner of the desk.  “You can use the desk, if you want.  I need to do some physio, so.”

“I, um, work better lying down,” Steve says, and points to the space under the bed.  “I can just—down there is fine.  If you don’t, you know, need that space.”

Bucky waves him on, so Steve takes the textbook and his backpack and gets himself situated down there.  He’s just starting to drop into the homework zone when he hears a whimper.  The little hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up and he can’t help but take a second to think about how weird it is that he’s mildly turned on by the sound.

Then he looks around to see Bucky standing by the door, back to Steve, his left arm held at shoulder height, elbow bent at a ninety-degree angle like he’s signalling that he’s turning right on a bike.  His head is turned to the right and so are his narrow hips, but his shoulders are squared, and Steve can see the twisted expression of utter pain on his face.

Bucky’s hoodie-and-plaid combo is crumpled up on the floor, and for the first time Steve can see a very large knot of scarred skin on Bucky’s muscular left shoulder.  He looks at it for several seconds, unable to help himself, before Bucky catches him.

“See somethin’ you like?” he asks, giving a pained half-grin over his shoulder.

Looking back down at his notes, Steve wills the blush on his face to go away.  “Sorry.  You were—distracting me.  Making noises.”  That doesn’t sound any less awkward than being caught staring.  “I mean.  You’re being too loud.”

“Sorry to disturb you,” Bucky snorts, and Steve glances back at him in time to watch as he steps back from the stretch and turns, shaking his arm out with a grimace.

“What, um,” Steve says, and swallows.  “What happened?  I mean.  If you don’t.  If you don’t mind saying.”

Slowly, Bucky windmills his arm, his nose still scrunched up.  “Couple years ago, me and a couple of friends were fucking around on a train.  I, uh.  I fell off.”

“And you’re still doing physio?  For an accident from a couple of years ago?”

Bucky’s dark eyes open, and he should be mad at Steve for asking so many questions, but his eyes are sort of soft, doe-ish, like the pain’s making everything in him slow down.  “My last surgery was only six months ago,” he explains.  Backing up a few steps, he bends to open the mini-fridge next to his desk and pulls out a metal water bottle.  “You want a drink?”

It occurs to Steve suddenly that he’s prying, and he jerks back to his studying.  “No.  Thanks.  Now would you quit distracting me?”

“Sorry,” Bucky says.  His low laugh trickles down Steve’s back to pool at the base of his spine, and this is the first moment where Steve realizes he’s a goner.

*

When Steve arrives at Bucky’s place a couple nights later—Friday—he’s got a pizza as well as his notebook.  Bucky’s eyes go bright when he opens the door, his nostrils flaring, and Steve’s pretty sure it’s about the pizza.  “You trying to wine and dine me, Rogers?” he asks as he lets Steve in.

Steve can feel himself going red as he tosses his backpack under the bed.  “I—no!  Of course not!  I, I wouldn’t.”  He would, but that’s not the point.  He turns back; Bucky’s leaning against the door, hands stuffed into his front pockets.  He’s smiling, but not the way he was before.  Steve’s not entirely sure what’s changed, but he can imagine why.  “No, wait.  Like.  Not that I _wouldn’t_.  Just.  You’re—and I—and we—yeah.  And I don’t even have wine.  But.  Look.  Can I just—do you have, like, some napkins?”

The grin turns to a smirk.  Bucky manages to turn the three steps across the room into a saunter, and Steve turns away so he doesn’t stare at Bucky’s hips swinging.  He sits down on the floor, leaning against the wall under the bed, and situates the pizza box in front of his knees as Bucky tears two paper towel squares off the roll before joining him.

“What kind of pizza?” Bucky asks, crossing his legs as Steve opens the box.  His knee presses to Steve’s, but he doesn’t shift away, so Steve doesn’t, either.

“I just got sausage and veggie.  Hope that’s okay.”

But Bucky’s already inhaling his first piece, folded down the middle.  He tries to grin when he realizes that Steve’s looking at him, but half a slice of pizza is still sticking out of his mouth.  Instead he gives Steve a thumbs-up and garbles something that sounds like _perfect_ around the pizza.  Part of Steve wants to laugh; the other part is impressed and slightly turned on by how wide Bucky’s managed to stretch his mouth.

Instead of speaking, he looks away from Bucky, willing the blush on his cheeks to dissipate as he takes his own piece of pizza.  “How’s the studying going?” Bucky asks.

“Fine, I guess,” Steve shrugs.  “It’d be easier if I could have my textbook back, though.”

Bucky snorts.  “Yeah.  Too bad about that.”

When Steve looks up, about to snipe at him, he’s caught completely off-guard by the shiny later of cheese grease on Bucky’s lower lip.  He stares for a second, then clears his throat and stuffs as much of his pizza as he possibly can into his mouth.  When he chances another look at Bucky, he’s already looking at Steve, eyes sort of half-narrowed at him.

“What?” Steve asks around his pizza.

Bucky just shakes his head.  “Nothing.  Just, I’ve got a party to go to tonight, so you’ll have to be out of here by nine.”

Something in Steve’s stomach clenches; whether it’s because he can imagine what Bucky gets up to at parties, or because three hours—not even—does not feel like nearly enough time to study, he’s not sure.  But he nods, and takes another big bite of his pizza.

*

It’s dark out by the time Steve looks up from his textbook.  His shoulders ache from holding his weight; he rolls onto his back and sits up so he can stretch.  Looking at Bucky’s back, hunched over his desk, he taps the home button on his phone so it lights up.

“Oh,” he says, “Bucky.  It’s—it’s quarter to ten.  You—your party.”

“Hm?”  Bucky’s head lifts; he half-turns, and in profile, Steve can see him blink.  “It’s—oh.  The party.”  For a second, he just sits, then he sits up straight once more and stretches, and yawns.  He turns to look at Steve, his eyes a slow honey drip.  “Fuck,” he says, conversationally.

Twisting his neck so it pops a couple times, Steve flips his textbook closed.  “I’ll—get out of here.  So you can…yeah.”

Bucky yawns again, stretching up; Steve manages to pull his eyes away from the dark line of hair leading down from Bucky’s belly button after only a second or two.  He slumps over the back of his chair and scuffs a hand through his hair.  “I don’t…think I’m going to go,” he mumbles, still looking at Steve, and he half-smirks as he rests his head on his arm.  “I’m havin’ more fun here.”

“Are you?” Steve asks.  He thinks he can smell the flirting.  “You really enjoy listening to me bitch about my biology class?”

The smirk grows into a grin, and it’s so pretty, even sideways, that Steve has to let his breath out slowly so it doesn’t make a sound.  “All I know is, I’m spending my Friday night with a really cute guy.  I’m pretty sure everyone at that party would chalk it up as a win for me.”

For a second Steve tries to fight off the blush that he can feel on his neck, but deep down he knows it’s no use, so instead he plays it coy, biting his lip around a smile and dropping his eyes from Bucky’s.  “I should…probably get going anyway,” he says.  “Get out of your hair.”

“Nah, here,” Bucky says, rolling his swivel chair over to the mini-fridge sitting next to his desk.  He pulls out two beers and holds one out to Steve, who takes it and moves his textbook so he can lean against the wall.

“Thanks.”

*

It’s late when Steve gets back to his dorm; Sam’s just getting ready for bed.  He grins when Steve steps in, tossing himself down onto his bed.  Steve drops his backpack in the corner, then does the same, yawning.

“Been studying all this time, huh?” Sam asks.

Steve doesn’t look at him, but he can hear the prod in his voice.  “Bucky and I had a couple beers before I came home,” he explains.  “I hate science.  Hate it.”

“I never would’ve guessed,” Sam snorts.  Steve just grumbles into his pillow.  “Nat says Bucky talks about you a lot.”

For a few seconds, Steve lets that sink in.  He knows Sam’s dangling a carrot, just out of his reach, for his damn mule mouth to reach for, but.  There’s a reason Sam’s his best friend; he knows Steve better than anyone, knows just how to make him curious.  “What’s he say?” Steve asks, rolling onto his side so he’s facing Sam’s bed.

Sam’s already smirking.  “I don’t know, man.  She won’t tell me.  All I do know is, she’s tired of listening to him.”  He chuckles; Steve licks his lip and hopes Sam can’t hear his heart beating.  “You going to do anything about that?”

“What do you think I should do?”

Idly, Sam tosses a tennis ball at the lightswitch.  The lights go out.  Through the darkness, Steve can see him shuffling around, trying to get comfortable.  “Steve, bud.  This is just like any other good love story.  Nothing’s going to happen if neither of you make a move.”

“Yeah, but…” Steve pauses, trying to work out what to say.  It’s not like any other good love story.  It’s not.  Most good love stories don’t start with throwing things at each other.  And he’s not one much for pining, but, _god_ , there’s just something about Bucky.  “You really think he talks about me?”

More shuffling as Sam punches his pillow into a better shape.  “It’s all Natasha’s been talking about, so, yeah, I do.”  He takes a deep breath in, holds it for three counts, then breathes out.  It’s a sure sign he’s ready for sleep.  “I don’t know, Steve.  That’s everything Nat told me.  Up to you to do something about it.”

*

“What the _fuck_ ,” Steve whispers, rereading the paragraph about synthetic biology that he’s literally spent like half an hour on.

Something hits him in the back of the head, then tumbles over his shoulder—Bucky’s pen.  He looks around.  “You’ve said that like fourteen times in a row,” Bucky mutters, not looking up from his laptop.  “Either tell me what’s wrong so I can help you, or shut the fuck up.  You’re not the only one trying to get some shit done.”

“Please tell me what _the fuck_ synthetic biology is,” Steve says.  “How can something be both synthetic _and_ biological at the same time?”  He rests his face down on his textbook and groans.  “Science is such _bullshit_.”

He opens his eyes in time to watch Bucky type a couple of things into his laptop, then pick his own textbook up off his lap and leave it on the desk before sliding down to the floor to sit next to Steve’s shoulders.  “Let’s take a look,” he says, slipping his hand under Steve’s head so he can pick it up and slide the textbook out from underneath.  For a second, Steve lets his eyes fall closed again.  Then his head’s on the hard carpet-over-concrete and he has to figure out how to get comfortable.

“This bit?” Bucky asks, pointing at the section Steve has been looking at.  He hums yes and yawns, watching through half-lidded eyes as Bucky reads.  It’s quiet for a couple of minutes, then Bucky sits up a little.  “Okay, look.  I—” he turns to look at Steve, but Steve’s so comfortable, head pillowed on his folded arms, that he can’t be bothered to look back.  He hears Bucky let out a long slow sigh, and there’s a moment where it’s completely silent in the room.  “I think you should take a break.”

“If you insist.”

Bucky shuffles around for a minute, then hits Steve with a big fluffy pillow.  “Here.  You know, you don’t have to lie here on the floor every time you come over.  You could try the bed.”

Shrugging, Steve hugs the pillow and rests back down.  It smells like shampoo and something else that he’s pretty sure is just Bucky, and it gives him the shivers.  “’M fine here,” he says.  “Wouldn’t want to intrude.”  He manages to peek one eye open and watches as Bucky bunks down beside him.  “Shouldn’t you be working?”

For a minute, Bucky doesn’t answer, too busy fluffing his pillow.  Then he grins over at Steve and shrugs.  “I could use a break, too.”

Steve lets himself relax for a few minutes, slipping into a space between sleeping and waking, and listens to Bucky’s soft breath beside him.  “How much did Natasha pay you?  To sing outside Sam’s and my window,” he asks, startling himself.

Bucky snorts, shifts a little, his shoulder brushing against Steve’s.  “Sixty bucks.  Plus she said I might get a number out of it.”

“A number?”

“A phone number,” Bucky explains.  “Yours, I think.  Nat’s always trying to set me up with people.  One time she tried to set me up with Tony goddamn Stark.”

Tony Stark is…well, he’s certainly not Steve’s type.  It’s the other part of Bucky’s words that’s twisting Steve’s gut, but he’s not quite ready to bring it up.  “So, she’s terrible at setting people up, is what you’re telling me.”

“Usually, yeah,” Bucky says.  “I like to think she does alright, sometimes.”

Steve opens one eye; Bucky’s looking at him, his right arm propped behind his head, his left, which can’t quite make that stretch, lying across his belly.  Steve’s about a million percent sure that both of them are thinking the same thing, so he shifts forward and is proved right when Bucky does the same.  Next thing he knows, they’re kissing, still lying next to each other, their shoulders and lips touching and nothing else.

Bucky’s lips are warm against his, and soft, and they match his just right.  Letting out a long, whining breath through his nose, he leans into Bucky’s weight.  “Fuck,” Bucky mutters against his mouth; Steve’s breath hitches as Bucky’s hand wraps hard around the back of his neck.  Bucky rolls up against him, props himself on his elbow so their bodies align.  “Shit, oh, shit.”

It takes everything in Steve to pull back, but he does, because he needs to keep hearing that, but he knows just how much better it will be if he makes Bucky work for it.  Bucky doesn’t open his eyes right away, and he’s so pretty that Steve can’t help but kiss him again.  Then Bucky’s eyes slide open, and if Steve thought they were pretty before, it’s nothing to how they are now, low-lit amber flecked with gold.

“Steve,” Bucky whispers.  “Steve, come on, _Steve_.”

Steve tips his forehead down so it presses against Bucky’s.  “Shh,” he soothes, “I know, shh.  I just—I thought—do you want to, um, d’you want to go on a date with me?”

For several long seconds, Bucky just stares at him, not speaking, his mouth—so, _so_ red—open just a little.  Finally, Steve nudges him.  “Bucky.”

Bucky blinks.  “Um.  What?”

“A date.  Let’s go on a date.”

“What, now?” Bucky asks.  He pushes himself into a seated position, grimacing, his hand falling from around Steve’s shoulder.  “Sorry.  Sorry.  My shoulder—I need to get off it.”  He rubs at the knot of scar tissue in his shoulder for a moment before turning to look back at Steve.  “You want to go on a date.  Right now.  Instead of staying here and kissing me some more.”

Steve props himself on his elbows, and, well, Bucky’s not the only one who can flirt.  “You only want me for my body, is that it?” he asks.

Still massaging his shoulder, Bucky narrows his eyes at him.  “Fine,” he says after a moment, throwing up his hands.  “Let’s go on a date.  How do you feel about that shawarma place by the math building?”

*

“Steve?”

They’re sitting on the edge of the fountain, Steve’s right knee against Bucky’s left.  He looks around; Sam is there, backpack slung over his shoulder, smirking.  “Oh, hey,” Steve says.  He doesn’t introduce Bucky in hopes that it will make Sam go away.  “You heading to class?”

“No,” Sam says.  “Home, actually.  When do you think you’ll be back?”

Steve can feel Bucky’s eyes on him; he’s glad it’s dusky, and his blush isn’t so noticeable.  “Um, I don’t know?  Later?”

Sam’s smirk grows.  “Alright,” he drawls.  “Whatever you say.”  He turns to Bucky.  “Don’t you go taking advantage of my boy, here.  He’s naïve.”  He doesn’t wait for Bucky to reply, just nods once and walks away.

As soon as his back is turned, Steve drops his head into his hands.  “Sorry,” he groans.

“Your roommate, I presume?  Sam?” Bucky asks, a laugh in his voice.  Steve hums yes.  “Nat really loves him.  I guess I can see why.”  Clearing his throat, Bucky gets to his feet and turns back.  “I suppose I should do the honorable thing and get you home, naïve boy.”

“Shit, god, don’t,” Steve mutters.  Bucky smiles at him.  Even through the dark, Steve knows it’s not his normal roguish grin.  He can’t help but smile back.  “I’d much rather you corrupted me.”

Now Bucky’s smile does go sly; he steps forward, runs both hands through Steve’s hair and splays his fingers down across his shoulder blades.  “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into, naïve boy,” he purrs, leaning down so he can breathe it into Steve’s ear.

Hooking his hands on Bucky’s forearms, Steve turns so his lips catch Bucky’s.  “I trust you.”

*


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the tag changes!

It’s happening again.  Why is it happening again?

Steve drags himself up out of sleep, and it occurs to him before he opens his eyes that he was a _lot_ angrier last time.  Still, he opens his eyes and shifts his face just enough that he can glare at Bucky where he’s standing at the end of the bed, strumming cheerfully at his guitar.

“I hate you,” Steve mutters, but it’s not nearly as acidic as he could be, and this time he doesn’t throw anything.

Bucky just grins at him, singing, “ _Am I in too deep?  Have I lost my mind?_ ”

“Yes,” Steve says.

“ _I don’t care—you’re here, tonight_ ,” Bucky sings.

Huffing out a long sigh, Steve shuts his eyes again, wraps his arms around his pillow and waits for it to be over.  It’s not that Bucky’s not talented, because he is—he’s a better than average guitarist, and his singing voice, while raspy, always hits the notes it’s supposed to and _always_ gets Steve going—and more that this is a repeat of last year, of Steve waking up in the middle of the night on Valentine’s Day listening to this goddamn song.  Really, he’s only just gotten it unstuck from his head.

The song ends and after a second Steve hears the guitar being placed back into its stand.  He doesn’t move, just listens as Bucky walks around the bed and kneels next to Steve’s head.  “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he whispers, leaning in and chewing on Steve’s ear.  Steve tries not to move, just to tease him.  “Come on, Mister Grumpyboots, I know you’re awake.  Open your eyes and _love me_.”

Steve can’t deny the plaintive tone in Bucky’s voice.  As he lets his eyes slide open, he reaches up and twists a hand into the silken strands of hair at the base of Bucky’s skull, reeling him in for a kiss.  “I do love you, Enrique,” he mutters against Bucky’s lips.  “I’d love you better if you got back into bed now.”

Bucky does as he’s told.  “Can’t even remember my _name_ ,” he grumbles, climbing over Steve and snuggling up against his back.  “After I got up in the middle of the night to continue our tradition.”

Rolling over so he’s pinning Bucky, Steve presses his wrists into the mattress.  “Do _not_ make this a tradition, Bucky,” he orders, “If I have to hear that goddamn song every year for the rest of my life, I may have to jump off a bridge.”

“Sure, sure,” Bucky says, and he flips them with very little effort, chuckling as he leans in to mouth at Steve’s neck.  “You love Enrique, I know it.”

“I give up,” Steve sighs, squirming a little and finally hooking one leg around Bucky’s waist.  “I give up, I give up, I’m never going to get that fucking song out of my head.  Just, can you promise only on Valentine’s Day?  The last thing I need is for you to start busting it out whenever you goddamn feel like it.”

Bucky leaves a mark just under Steve’s nipple, his heart beating slow and strong against Bucky’s nose.  “I really can’t promise anything,” he says.  Steve mutters something about kicking the guitar into pieces, but Bucky’s stopped listening, too busy trailing his mouth over Steve’s sparse chest hair in the direction of his belly button.

It’s a spot that always makes Steve fall apart, even if he knows it’s coming.  Bucky slides his tongue, deliberate and sure, into Steve’s navel, feeling the stutters of Steve’s breath.  But he doesn’t linger here for long; after a second, he releases Steve’s hands so that he can shove his sweats down past his dick, already hard enough to bump at his chin every time Steve inhales.  There are nights when Bucky will happily move as slow as possible, relish in pulling Steve to pieces one slow touch at a time, but right now all he wants is to make Steve forget his name, and the best way to do that is to have him fast and hard, before he can think too much about it.

Steve actually yelps aloud when Bucky swallows his cock, his leg hooking on Bucky’s shoulder and his hips jerking up against him.  Bucky has to lean most of his weight on him to keep from getting choked.

He sits up for a second, swiping at the tears in his eyes.  Steve props himself on an elbow, mouth open and clearly trying to collect himself; he reaches up and runs a hand through Bucky’s hair.  “Sorry,” he says, “sorry, sorry.”

Bucky shrugs a shoulder, leaning up to kiss Steve again and grabbing the lube and a condom from the bedside table while he’s at it.  “I know,” he murmurs against Steve’s lips when he tries to apologize again.  “It’s payback for the song, I know.”

Steve lets out a surprised laugh even as Bucky starts back down.  “Maybe we can make that part of the tradition, too,” he says, “you can sing Enrique Iglesias at me, then choke on my dick.”

“In your dreams.”

Steve’s joyous bubbling laughter is cut off by a low, heartfelt groan when Bucky deepthroats him again, the condom abandoned on the bed beside him, lube all over his hands.  Bucky really doesn’t give him long to enjoy the fingers in his ass before he tosses the lube aside for a moment to get the condom on.

Then he’s straightening up, one hand splayed across Steve’s chest to steady himself, the other on his hip as he presses into him.  Steve’s eyes are on him, he knows it, but he can’t help but let his eyes drift shut as Bucky seats himself fully inside him.  For several seconds, he doesn’t move, trying to swallow back the desperate urge to come, and only looks up when Steve’s hand slips into his.

Steve is giving him this soft smile when he looks up.  Bucky considers giving it to him slow, making this last.

He thinks that up until Steve nudges him with his knee.  “Let’s go, Buck, chop chop.”

“You got somewhere to be, Rogers?”

Steve smirks, and Bucky knows that whatever he’s about to say is going to be some terrible joke or other.  He prepares himself for it, putting his hands down on either side of Steve’s body.

“Yeah, in my dreams, watching you choke on my di— _oh, fucking God_.”  Steve’s eyes literally roll back into his skull as Bucky starts up a pounding rhythm, bending Steve practically in half as he goes.  “ _Bucky_ , Christ.”  His voice is hitched, his vowels made long and tense by Bucky’s motions.

But he still knows Bucky’s name, so clearly Bucky needs to work harder.  Leaning his weight on his right hand, next to Steve’s head, Bucky uses his left hand to palm at Steve’s cock.  Steve shudders, his eyes rolling up in his head, and Bucky, not one to let an advantage go to waste, gathers up all of his coordination and leans down to tongue at Steve’s nipple.

Steve comes on a breathy cry, his entire body rigid; Bucky fucks him through it, slowing his thrusts and jerking Steve’s dick until he’s mewling and squirming beneath him.  Then he pauses, sitting up a bit as Steve murmurs incomprehensibly.

Bucky watches as Steve catches his breath, their eyelashes catching on one another.  Steve’s breath puffs against Bucky’s lips, and he has to close his eyes to collect himself.

He yelps when Steve flips them, and when he looks up Steve’s grinning at him, straddling his waist, Bucky still buried in him.  Steve rolls his hips, his breath catching, and Bucky digs his fingernails into Steve’s thighs and arches his back as hard as he can before Steve grabs his wrists and pins them to the pillow.  “You gonna give it to me, baby?” Steve purrs, leaning down and brushing his lips to Bucky’s so that when he whispers, Bucky can feel it against his mouth.  “Come on, gorgeous, give it to me.”

Moaning helplessly, Bucky rolls his hips upward, into the cradle of Steve’s body.  He watches as Steve’s eyes flutter shut, his eyebrows drawing together as he matches Bucky’s motion, and he lets out a low cry against Bucky’s lips.

Bucky twists his hands in Steve’s grip; after a moment, Steve sits up, letting go of him and raking his nails down Bucky’s chest until he can splay his palms across his belly.  “No, no, no,” Bucky murmurs, running his hands up Steve’s arms until he can cup the back of his neck and lead him back down for another kiss.

He comes that way, unsure of where he ends and Steve begins, fingers leaving bruises on Steve’s hips and back.  Steve purrs, literally purrs, and mouths his way along Bucky’s jaw.  “You’re so pretty when you come,” he murmurs against his ear.

“I try,” Bucky replies, tipping his head so Steve has better access.  He feels wrung-out, like he’s just gotten off three hours of physio.  Yawning, he curls his fingers between Steve’s and lets his body relax into the mattress.

Eventually Steve rolls off of him, snuggling up against Bucky’s side.  “Pretty good way to start Valentine’s Day, hey?” Bucky asks as he shucks the condom, ties it off, and tosses it somewhere across the room.  Steve will be mad when he steps on it in the morning, but for now he just grumbles half-heartedly into Bucky’s ear.

“We could have done this several hours from now, you know,” Steve mutters.  “You didn’t have to wake me up in the middle of the night.”

“Of course I did,” Bucky protests, “it’s tradition.”

“It is _not_.  Twice doesn’t count as tradition.  And it wouldn’t even have been twice if you’d respected my sleep tonight.”

Bucky nuzzles his face into Steve’s hair and yawns.  “Whatever you say, naïve boy.  I’m chalking this up as a win for me,” he says.  “How do you feel about pancakes when we get up?”

“Only if you bring them to me in bed.”

Bucky laughs, his voice gentle against Steve’s ear, and Steve settles in.  “Only for you, since you asked so nicely,” Bucky murmurs.  “Love you, naïve boy.”

“Mm, I guess I love you too, Enrique.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Find me on Tumblr!](http://rooonil-waazlib.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Find [me](http://rooonil-waazlib.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr!


End file.
